


Getting Over You

by isitandwonder



Category: And Then We Danced, And Then We Danced (2019)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, I just couldn't get this movie out of my head, M/M, Merab in London, spoilers for the movie, there's smut coming, what happened after the movie ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: As there's no future for him in Georgia, Merab has moved to London. It's a shit life he leads there, until he meets two men between he has to decide. What will he choose, a career in dance or happiness? Or is both possible?
Relationships: Merab/OMC
Comments: 26
Kudos: 37





	1. In A Foreign Land

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I saw this movie at a festival in October and I couldn't let it go. But I saw it only once so please forgive any mistakes I've made.  
> Yet I wanted to give Merab a future. This is my idea of it.  
> I couldn't find any other fics about this movie but I probably didn't look thoroughly enough. If there are more, please link me to them.

Loud.

If someone had asked Merab to describe London in one word he would have said “loud”.

And it stank.

Not that Tbilisi was quiet and smelled of roses but at home Merab knew the sounds and scents. They were familiar, he could distinguish them, sort and evaluate them. Bringing order to the chaos. 

But in London it overwhelmed him all at once: fumes, the hammering of heavy construction machines everywhere, at night the drunks shouting incomprehensible slurs in his gloomy street that smelled of piss, sick, mold and fried onions.

That smell especially made Merab gag.

Because it clung to him, his hair, his clothes. It came with the job and surrounded him for eight hours a day – the time he spent at the greasy stove in the greasy kitchen of a greasy McDonald's, frying deep-frozen disks of minced meat for minimum wage.

It had been the only job he could get.

“Qualifications?” The manager, a spotty guy in his mid-twenties, had asked.

“Dance.” Merab had stuttered.

“Well, not much use for that here, mate, but I'm sure you can turn a burger just fine.” He'd shoved a silly paper hat and an ugly brown polyamide shirt at Merab, and since that day he slaved for the fast food giant about whose fries and burgers he'd dreamt as a kid back in Georgia six days a week.

Yet he soon discovered that even if he did work double shifts and just ate the stuff customers left on their trays it was impossible to survive on 6.15 an hour in a city as expensive as London.

The hostel he was staying at alone charged him ten pounds a night in a dorm. Yet they didn't ask any questions and never wanted to see a passport.

When someone asked him where he came from he'd quickly learned to say Romania, as it was an EU country. Saying Georgia only got him questioning looks and remarks why on earth an American spoke such bad English. When he told them 'No, not that Georgia, I'm from Georgia in Caucasus' they thought him a Muslim and potential ISIS terrorist and backed off.

Merab lacked the words to explain that he was in fact a member of the Apostolic Autocephalous Orthodox Church.

Not that he was especially proud of it. In fact, coming to England had been a move to free himself from the constraints of Georgian society and especially the church.

But being gay in London was only marginally better than being gay in Tbilisi.

True, here were clubs and bars – but Merab couldn't afford visiting them. Sometimes he saw men holding hands in the street or even kiss. But he also saw the way other people looked at them. And often they even shouted something in their unintelligible dialect. And once or twice they didn't leave it at shouting.

How was this better than the discrimination he had suffered at home? At least there he had understood the codes and insults, the ways to hide and drop hints. He'd even started to discover the small scene.

In London, being gay might be legal but that didn't mean it was more widely accepted than it was in Tbilisi.

He sometimes thought of Irakli when despair overcame him. Was he now sitting in his tiny mountain village, watching his young wife feed their first-born son, sadness weighing his broad shoulders down?

Was he missing dance?

Was he missing Merab?

Fuck, Merab wouldn't back down! He wouldn't betray who he really was for a little bit of peace and quiet.

It were these thoughts that made him get out of bed every morning, washing in the grimy communal showers down the corridor, brushing his teeth at the broken sink before shuffling of to eight hours of cooking processed meat.

His life here might be shit but at least he was trying; while Irakli had chosen not to even bother anymore, living in some sort of coma.

David texted from time to time. About his marriage. About mama and grandma. About his daughter But never about Irakli. And never about dance.

As much as Merab had hated the routine of training and rehearsal – being deprived of it now felt worse. He missed dancing, missed the focus, the concentration, the strain of muscles moving just the way they learned to do, of body and mind coming together, melting motions and movements centuries old, laden with tradition.

There was a ballet studio two floors up from the McDonald's, he'd discovered, and sometimes he hung around there after work, staring through the glass, watching bodies twist and turn.

They weren't very good. It was mostly rich white girls with neither talent nor determination trying not hard enough, even those who might have had the potential to be at least average. And the trainers were way too soft on them, there was no shouting and no slapping; no one grabbed their calves and pulled their legs higher, or leaned on their shoulders to make them split wider. It was all kind voices, friendly encouragement and laughs.

How on earth were they ever going beyond their limits like this?

Merab was sitting outside the studio now, tired, smelling of onions, absent-mindedly rubbing his ankle, when the door opened and a woman with huge glasses and a thick blond ponytail stared at him.

'Shit, she'll think I'm a pervert ogling her pupils and call the police.'

Merab was shuffling to his feet, ready to leave when she spoke to him: “You here for the job?”

A job? Instinctively, Merab nodded.

“Well, did you bring anything? A CV?”

Fuck, of course he didn't. So he shook his head and tried to smile.

The woman shrugged. “Doesn't really matter, does it? Come in, they'll be finished soon.” Merab followed her through the door and down a corridor, its walls painted in soft pink like the whole studio.

The woman stopped after rounding a corner and opened a broom cupboard. “You'll have to wipe all the floors with this special detergent for wood.” She held up a bottle. “Then you'll vacuum the carpets. Should you find any left clothes or shoes, put them in my office.” She pointed at another door opposite then handed Merab a bunch of keys. “Switch the lights off and lock up when you leave. I'm not expecting you to turn up every day at six sharp but I expect my studio cleaned in the morning when I come in for training. Understood?”

Merab nodded again, the keys dangling between his fingers.

“I'll pay you ten pounds for each evening in cash. How long you take is up to you. When you're fast it's a good wage. But don't be sloppy.”

Suddenly, voices filled the corridor.

“Okay, they've finished. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Great.” She turned and left, having not even asked for Merab's name.

And that's how he got access to a dance studio.

He made the most of it.

After dutifully mopping and hoovering the rooms and making sure everyone had left, he went into the largest studio, used his phone to put some music on, and slowly started stretching.

In the office of the boss he'd found a crate filled with dance clothes pupils must have forgotten, and from it he fished a pair of gray tights. Now he stared at his reflection in the huge spotless mirror he'd wiped ten minutes ago: his legs still looked good, yet they screamed when he pulled them apart, flexing his bare calloused feet. He'd tied his black t-shirt around the waist he now bend to bring his upper body down on the wooden floor smelling of that special polish.

Every night, he practiced. Miraculously, his ankle didn't play up. Maybe the months of forced rest had done it some good?

Soon, he left the traditional moves he'd been taught since he was a boy behind and moved more freely. He'd studied dance videos in his hostel bed many nights, yearning to be able to try if he could exercise these motions himself. They were fluent but also rather jerky, high jumps contrasted with rolling around on the floor.

Merab didn't dare to shower at the studio so he went home sweaty every night long after his work at McDonald's was finished, climbing into bed hurting all over and happy.

After his first week, an envelope with 60 pounds was waiting for him on the office desk. He smiled, clutching it to his chest.

The next day, he bought proper dance shoes, sending the rest of the money to his mama via Western Union.

Merab lived for the evenings he spent dancing, losing himself in these hours filled with music and training until his t-shirt clung to his skin and his muscled felt sore.

Yet he should have known that his secret life wouldn't stay hidden forever.

After three months, he'd just finished a complicated routine, his body lying on the floor in a heap of heaving flesh, when he heard someone clap.

He froze a moment, then forced himself to raise his head and look around.

His boss was standing in the doorway, slowly applauding him.

He quickly scrambled to his feet. “Sorry... I...” He was once again lost for words and just tried to push past her.

But she grabbed his arm. “Hey, where you think you're going?”

“Sorry. Must leave. Did not want to-”

“You're good.”

Those three words made him stop in his tracks.

His boss released his arm, pointing to the middle of the floor. “Show me.”

And he did, a little insecure at first but then just forgetting about her, giving himself over to the music and his body's reactions to it.

When he was finished he dared to look at his boss now sitting on a stool in front of the mirror, chin in palm.

She was nodding, a strange expression on her face.

Her next question surprised him.

“What's your name?”

“Merab.”

“I'm Dana. I'm giving a party on Saturday evening. I want you to come and meet someone. After you've finished here, of course. Now go shower.”

She walked out without another word, the door closing softly behind her.

“A party?!” Mary sounded excited when Merab told her about it as they met at her place for breakfast on Friday. She shared a house with three other students in Crouch End – her room literally as large as a shoe box – as she was by now studying at LSE. Dance had always only been a hobby of her and after finishing school her father had insisted she got a degree in economics to eventually take over the family business.

As wealthy as her father was in Georgia, in London his daughter had to struggle like every student. So right now it was jam on toast and black instant coffee in her untidy kitchen, a half-eaten bowl of Ramen from one of her flatmates still sitting on the table.

“Yes.”

“And?” Mary asked, leaning closer.

“And what?” Merab played dumb.

“Any idea who she wants you to meet?”

“No.”

“Interesting...”

“I don't know. Maybe it's just for another cleaning job.”

“Sure.” Mary rolled her eyes as she stirred another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. Now that she'd quit dancing she didn't have to watch her weight any longer.

Merab watched her, smiling a little.

“What?” She asked, looking up.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. Do you have something to tell me? If so, spit it out. I have class in an hour.”

“No, it's nothing...” He turned and looked out of the window into the small yard.

“Merab!” Mary kicked him under the table and he winced. “Come on. I know you. What is it? Did you meet someone?”

He couldn't suppress the grin spreading on his face.

“Oh, you! Who is he?”

The fact that the male pronoun came so easily over Mary's lips made Merab love her even more.

“He moved in yesterday. His name's Mo. He's... gorgeous.”

“Tell me more.” Mary blew on her coffee as she moved her chair closer.

“He's tall. So tall. At least 1,90 meter. He's a bricklayer, I think. I'm not sure I got it right. He comes from Birmingham and is now looking for work in London. He's got the bunk next to me in the dorm-”

“How does he look?” Mary interrupted.

“Broad shoulders. Muscles, but not too beefy. Dreadlocks. And his smile...” Merab sighed as he rested his forehead on his folded arms on the table.

He'd moved in last evening, sitting cross-legged in the bunk next to Merab's when he'd come back from work.

“Hey, I'm Mo.” A fist offered for Merab to bump while the guy had pulled off his headphones.

“Merab.” He'd been acutely aware of how sweaty he'd been. “Sorry, need a shower.” He'd opened his locker and got his soap and a towel out.

“Yeah, me too, actually. You can show me the facilities.”

And like that, they'd both ended up in the showers together. Merab had made a grant gesture at the rather drab communal bathroom with its broken tiles and mold on the ceiling while Mo had looked around, putting his towel over one of the hooks.

“Well, it is just ten quid a night so this is what I expected.” He'd turned back to Merab. “Almost. But it has its perks.” That grin...

Had he been flirting?

Merab had quickly pulled his hoodie and t-shirt over his head, shed his sweat pants and trainers and had gotten under the lukewarm spray. A lifetime spend in male locker rooms had exorcised any shyness when it came to getting naked around men.

“That one broken, only cold.” He'd gestured over to the shower-head in the left corner, so Mo had chosen the one right next to him.

When Merab had turned to look at him from under the spray, he'd almost choked. Because sweet mother of Christ was that guy packing. White foam was glistening all over his ebony skin and Merab had thought should God strike him down at this moments for his sins he could die a happy man.

When he'd raised his eyes towards Mo's face he'd become aware that he'd been watching him, a strange smile on his face.

“Like what you see?”

Merab had turned away so fast he'd almost slipped on the tiles.

“Hey, sorry, bro, I didn't want to-”

A huge hand had touched Merab's shoulder, making him glance over.

“No. Me sorry. It's just...” How was he to explain that he'd never seen a black man naked before? And that he felt silly that apparently all those rumors were true? Wasn't that incredibly racist? Fuck, why wasn't his English better?

Instead of getting his point across Merab just shrugged, making an impatient gesture.

“Where are you from?” Mo's hand was still on his shoulder, now sliding up his neck.

“Georgia.” Merab had even forgotten to lie.

“That's far from home, mate.” Mo had removed his hand and had started to shampoo his hair with a concoction that smelled of coconut.

“Yes.” Merab had had trouble swallowing.

“Why did you leave.”

“There is nothing for me back home.” Why had he been so honest with this stranger? “It is not good country for men like me.”

Suddenly, Mo had squealed, turning away from under the spray. “Fuck!” The water must have gotten cold. English plumbing was notoriously unpredictable, Merab had discovered.

“Come here.” He'd gestured Mo over and they'd shared his hot water until they'd both washed the shampoo out of their hair. Mo's dreadlocks hadn't even looked wet while Merab's ginger curls had been plastered to his forehead, quite unflattering as he'd presumed.

Drying off, he'd been aware that Mo had been openly staring at him.

“Wanna talk about it?” He'd eventually asked.

“My English not good.” Merab had shaken his head.

“Nevermind. I've been working with enough guys from Eastern Europe... just, let me buy you a drink, okay?”

They'd ended up getting cans of John Smith's from the off-license round the corner of their hostel, sitting in the deserted backyard, drinking and smoking, while Merab had tried as best he could to tell his story: Tbilisi, dancing, Irakli... the impossible situation for gay men in Georgia.

“Well, believe me, being black and gay in Birmingham isn't much fun either.”

When they both had emptied three cans Mo had leaned forward and said, his speech only a little slurred: “Show me how you dance.”

And Merab had done, arms raised above his head, back straight, legs flexing as he'd jumped and turned, the chipped concrete floor not worse than the studio floor back in Tbilisi.

When he'd finished Mo had clapped, slowly, his eyes gazing into Merab's.

“Wow. I had no idea...” Then he'd gotten up and taken Merab's face between his rough palms, leaned in and kissed him...

“Merab!” Mary's voice brought him back to the here and now. He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Oh shit, you got it bad.”

“He's just... he's fun. And smart. And he looks so good.”

“How far did it go?”

“We kissed. And then we went to bed.”

“Together?”

“No! He's not like that.”

“Oh, I'm sure he's the perfect gentleman.” Mary grinned, making a rude gesture with her hand. “Come on, drink up, I have Uni and you have to grill some meat.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merab goes to Dana's party...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took ages to update! But I'm so happy that some people actually read the first chapter. I hoped but didn't count on that :) Thank you!

The next evening, Merab hurried back to the hostel after performing both his duties at McDonald's and the studio. He desperately needed a shower before he could attend any party, especially one in Notting Hill.

Of course he'd seen the movie.

Mo was sitting cross-legged on his bunk but pulled his earphones off when Merab barged in.

“Hey, what's up?” Mo grinned.

They hadn't seen much of each other over the last few days. After the kiss. Merab worked a lot and Mo seemed to do the same. And now there was no time either.

“I'm going to a party.” Merab explained, grabbing a towel and his shower gel from his locker. “I'm late.”

The communal showers were empty and there was magically still some hot water left. Merab watched other people's hair clog the drain, closed his eyes and quickly washed.

When he returned ten minutes later, Mo was examining his rather limited wardrobe (he must have left his locker open).

“That's all you got?” Mo asked with a tinge of pity.

“Yes. No good?” Merab was playing with the knot of the towel around his waist.

“Well, that depends. If you want to come over as poor Eastern European immigrant shopping at Primark you got it spot on-”

“Fuck off!” Merab sat heavily on his small bed.

“Hey, sorry, is this party important?”

“It's my boss. She want me to meet someone.”

“Who? Ronald McDonald?” Mo was pointing at Merab's polyester uniform shirt, the bright yellow M visible even as he had it all bunched up in a ball of clothes stuck under his left arm.

“No, I have other job at dance studio.”

“Okay, so this is about dance? Artsy people?” When Merab didn't understand and just looked back at Mo with a blank expression, he dramatically waved his arms in the air and mimicked kissing someone on the cheeks. It made Merab grin. He shrugged, nodded. “Then you definitely need to wear something a little more elegant. Wait.” Mo went over to his own locker and rummaged through it until he pulled out a black t-shirt.

“I have black t-shirt myself.” Merab commented.

“Yep, but not a Versace.” Mo threw the garment at him.

“Versace?” Merab felt the heavy fabric between his fingers, silky and thick. He stroked it with growing admiration.

“Yeah. With it, your jeans might be excusable.” Mo held out the only good pair of trousers Merab owned.

When he looked at himself in the mirror a few minutes later, he had to agree that Mo understood something about dressing: the t-shirt was tight, showing off his shoulders and slim waist, while the jeans hugged his ass (he didn't bother with underwear at Mo's advice; he'd been also quite aware of Mo's eyes on him as he'd dressed).

“Okay, now, shoes. We have roughly the same size.” Mo's socked toes nudged Merab's bare, blistered feet. “Here, try these.” Mo took a pair of trainers from a box at the bottom of his locker.

It were black Air Jordan high tops. And they fitted.

“Careful, I haven't yet worn them. Now, your hair.” By now Merab was wax in Mo's hands as he set to work, kneading expensive smelling products into Merab's short ginger curls.

“Perfect.” Mo grinned, looking proud as he turned Merab towards the cracked mirror on their dorm wall.

Merab had to agree. He looked good. Very good.

“Thank you!” He said, raising his hand to touch his artfully tousled hair. Mo swatted it away.

“Don't!”

Merab hugged him, laughing, then smoothed the t-shirt down as it had ridden up his sides.

“Versace.” He whispered.

“Now, go and turn their heads.” Mo squeezed his biceps. “And tell me all about your posh party when you come back.” And he quickly pecked him on the lips.

The house seemed rather tiny to Merab; no comparison to the grand mansions in which the rich in Tbilisi hid behind high walls. Maybe this was the proverbial English understatement?

Dana opened after he'd used the brass knocker, wearing some sort of flowing moss-colored tunic Merab's grandmother wouldn't even have chosen to mop the stairs in. Yet her hair was artfully piled up on her head and she smelled of a hint of elegant perfume when she hugged him. Bright green stones twinkled on her earlobes.

“Merab! You made it.” She pulled him into a narrow hallway that opened into a long living room. A lot of people were standing around or sitting on sofas. Of course, there was a fireplace and above it hung a huge painting of what could be a naked woman. It all looked a bit shabby to Merab, with mismatched cushions and low tables that must have come from a junk sale.

But whatever, it wasn't his place to judge.

Dana pressed a glass of white wine into his hand that tasted like cat piss. “Or... I don't now... do you even drink? Sorry, as a Muslim, I mean...”

“I am not...” But Dana had already moved on and was now standing at the far end of the room, talking to a lean, tall guy with dark hair and black-rimmed glasses, a touch of gray streaking his temples.

As Merab sidled out of the way and leaned against the wall, depositing his drink on the mantelpiece, they came over.

“Merab, dear, I want you to meet Geoffrey. Geoffrey, this is Merab, the fascinating young dancer I told you about.”

The tall, lean guy offered his hand and Merab shook it. His grip was firm.

“Geoffrey is the director of the London Modern Dance Company. He's always looking for new, fresh talents.” After that introduction, Dana fluttered off.

“Well, she's not really subtle, is she?” Geoffrey smirked. He had very blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a rather sarcastic smile.

Merab wasn't sure he liked him. So he just shrugged.

Geoffrey sighed. “You do speak English, right?”

“Yes.” 

“Good.” The smile turned a little warmer. “Dana told me you're good. Like, really good. Her precise words were 'I haven't seen anything like him in years'.”

Merab blushed and stared at his feet in his borrowed trainers. He felt Geoffrey's gaze travel over his body.

He should probably say something.

“I was only...” At a loss for words Merab just gestured with his hands, shuffled his feet a little.

“Improvising?” Geoffrey translated his movements.

“Yes. Only for I... me.”

“It impressed her enough to invite me tonight.” Geoffrey looked around. “You don't have a drink. Shall I get us something?”

“No, thank you!” Merab shook his head. “I have wine but...” He didn't want to be rude but, seriously, he also didn't want to taste that swill again.

Geoffrey chuckled. “ You had the white? It's awful, isn't it? Some organic plonk, or so she says.” Geoffrey put his own glass down next to Merab's. “You know what? I just live round the corner. We could go there and have a decent Vodka.”

Merab was quite aware that this offer could encompass much more than just a drink. Geoffrey casually held his gaze. Was he chatting him up?

Well, he didn't look too bad. Middle-aged, okay, but still fit.

It had been a while since someone had tried to hook up with Merab. And never a director of a dance company.

“Okay.”

Geoffrey placed his hand at the small of Merab's back as he steered him towards the door.

“I really like your t-shirt.” He whispered in his ear as they made their way through the throng of people.

“Not say good-bye?” Merab asked. It seemed not very polite to just leave.

“I'll explain it to Dana tomorrow.”

It was true that Geoffrey lived literally round the corner in a similar small house. Yet his was furnished much more sparsely, with furniture made of black leather and chrome.

“Have a seat.” His host gestured over to a black leather sofa and walked into the adjoining kitchen. “Vodka, right?”

“Yes, please.” Merab sat down primly.

“Ice?”

He shook his head.

The room was only dimly lit by a reading light next to an armchair in an alcove. Through the widows, Merab thought he saw a garden but now all was dark outside. He listened to Geoffrey rummaging in the kitchen, looking around.

Though there wasn't much to look at. A state of the art sound system, some CDs on a shelf, a black-and-white framed photograph of a dancer doing an échapé sauté, just wearing a white dance belt...

“Cheers.” Geoffrey held a glass filled with a colorless liquid in front of Merab's face.

The Vodka was cool as it burned down his throat. Geoffrey sat at the other end of the couch and Merab thought for a moment that he might have misread the situation.

“So, tell me, where're you from?”

“Tbilisi.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Where did you study?”

“National Dance Academy of Georgia.” That was only a rough translation but the best he could do.

“Traditional dance?”

Merab nodded.

“Why did you come to London?”

Now, that was a tricky question... how much should he disclose? Should he just talk about artistic differences at his dance school? Or say he wanted to get new experiences in contemporary dance? Or should he plainly admit that he was gay and had no future at home?

And how to say any of this in a language he barely mastered?

“London good.” He hated his limited vocabulary, downed the rest of his drink. “Many art. Dance. Good work. Good... atmosphere.” He gestured with his hands to imply that he would like to say so much more.

“I think we need to work on your English.” Geoffrey smiled, moved a little closer.

His hand came to rest on Merab's thigh, moving upwards.

“Another drink?” Geoffrey pointed at Merab's empty glass he was still holding.

He shook his head, staring down at the other man's hand on his leg. He didn't move, didn't push it away. Just swallowed a few times.

“You know, tomorrow we could drive up to my studio, and you could show me how good you really are. Like an audition. You understand?”

The 'if you comply to my wishes tonight' wasn't said but strongly implied.

So, this was his chance. And it wasn't that Geoffrey looked ugly... he even smelled nice up this close.

“What do you say?” The fingers squeezed his thigh. “Many young dancers would be panting for it.”

“Okay.” Merab looked Geoffrey in the face, nodded.

“Lets move this t the bedroom, then.”

The bedroom was upstairs, white walls, a huge bed covered with black satin sheets.

“I'll just step under the shower. Make yourself comfortable.” Geoffrey pointed towards the bed.

Merab took it as his cue to get naked.

The satin felt cool against his skin as he lay down.

His heart was pounding fast...

But before he could get cold feet, Geoffrey was back, a towel around his waist (he did really look fit for his age), a packet of condoms in his right hand.

“Lube's on the nightstand.”

Merab looked to his left where he saw the large pump dispenser...

Okay...

Now wasn't perhaps the right time to say that he'd never done it before, had ever gone all the way. Not with Irakli and certainly not with the few guys he'd met in London.

He'd always thought his first time would be something special. Maybe with someone like Mo...

Well, apparently not.

So Merab turned over onto his stomach, pulled one leg up and rested his cheek on his folded arms, hoping to look seductive.

It seemed to work because the next moment cold slick fingers touched him between his cheeks, pushing in.

Okay, that he had done before.

He heard Geoffrey pant as he added another finger.

Merab closed his eyes, evoking Irakli doing this, holding him, telling him he was sweet and beautiful and gorgeous...

Breathe. Just breathe through it.

Irakli's kind face morphed together with Mo's...

Then Merab heard a blister pack being torn.

He didn't dare to open his eyes.

It hurt, but not as bad as he'd expected. Geoffrey's hands where on his body, his mouth on his neck. He was whispering something Merab didn't understand. He couldn't concentrate on two things at once; right now, he had to use all his strength to keep breathing, to keep his mouth and eyes shut...

It was over sooner than he'd thought. A few deep thrusts and he heard Geoffrey groan. Then the fullness was gone, only leaving a slightly weird emptiness behind.

Geoffrey dropped the condom into a bin next to the bed.

“You can shower if you want.”

Merab's legs trembled as he stumbled into the bathroom – black and white as well, of course, with a huge walk-in shower.

He had no idea how long he stood under the spray.

Eventually, Geoffrey opened the door, wearing a black terry cloth robe.

“Your Uber's here.”

Merab shook the water from his hair.

“No money.”

“I'll pay for it.”

When he came downstairs five minutes later, Geoffrey was waiting by the door.

“Give me your number so we can arrange your audition.”

Merab winced as he sat in the back of the car, giving the driver his address. Funnily, he was a fellow Georgian, but Merab didn't want to talk as London rushed past him outside. He closed his eyes again, leaned his head against the window, and pretended to sleep until they reached his hostel.

Yet Mo wasn't asleep when Merab crawled into the bunk next to him.

“Hey, how was your party. You're late.” He smiled sleepily.

“Talk tomorrow.” Merab mumbled, turning around, hugging his pillow.

He was pretty sure that Geoffrey would never call him.

God, he'd been so stupid!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, well, I'm not known for my happy stories...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for only updating every 2 months...

When Merab dragged himself out of bed early the next morning for his shift he felt like shit. Total shit. His head hurt – probably from the drink last night, but also from worrying.

He still felt so ashamed that he avoided Mo, just grabbed his clothes and decided to get an Irn Bru on his way to work.

To be honest, he felt like a whore. And he didn't know how to deal with it.

The sticky sweet liquid helped a little – at least with his hang-over.

But at McDonalds, sweating over the grill, the smells of onions and raw beef made him nauseous. He threw up in the alley behind the building on his lunch break, retching bile, but didn't feel better afterwards.

Just when he was walking up the stairs to the studio in the early evening to do the cleaning, his mobile chimed.

_'Are you free tonight? G'_

Merab paused on the stairs, staring at the display of his phone for a whole minute.

Was this a joke?

Would Geoffrey really be this cruel?

But what did he really know about the man?

He waited to answer until he'd mopped the floors of the studio, wiped down the barres and mirrors. Only then did he reply: _'Maybe.'_

He still had some dignity left, after all. But Geoffrey was still the director of a dance company...

His answer came immediately as if he'd been sitting with his phone in his hand.

_'Listen, I think I came over all creepy last night. Let's get dinner. G'_

Just the thought of food made Merab want to vomit again, but didn't this sound like a peace offering?

Were they at war?

_'Okay. But I at work. Looking shit, smelling bad.'_ He texted back.

_'Get an Uber to my place. I'll cook. G'_

_'And don't worry about the cost, I'll pay. G'_

Merab briefly thought about showering at the studio – but where was the point if he had to wear his greasy uniform again afterwards? Served Geoffrey right, though, to meet Merab in his smelly work clothes...

As he sat in the car, his phone vibrated again.

_'Hey, we didn't talk 2day. How r u? Mo'_

Merab slid the phone back into his pocket. He just couldn't engage right now.

When the Uber stopped in front of Geoffrey's house he actually came out of the front door, a tea towel tugged into the waist of his trousers, to pay the driver. Merab stood by, feeling awkward. He was sure his driver thought him a prostitute.

And wasn't he?

“Dinner's ready in five.” Geoffrey quickly kissed his cheek, then ushered him inside.

“Can I shower?” Merab asked, remembering the luxurious bathroom upstairs. He moved his hand up and down his body, pulling a face, indicating that he hated his polyester uniform.

“Sure.” Geoffrey smiled. “You know the way? Just grab a robe afterwards.”

Fifteen minutes later, they both sat at Geoffrey's glass and chrome dining table, eating something he called curry. It was some creamy sauce with chicken and rice, but it wasn't too bad, actually.

“So, what's this nonsense of you working at McDonald's? And then cleaning up for Dana?” Geoffrey folded his napkin on the table, putting his spoon down.

“I need money.” Merab shrugged. What did Geoffrey think, that he enjoyed grilling burgers and mopping floors?

“But you're a dancer. Come on, show me.” He got up and beckoned Merab to follow him.

They went down some stairs into a basement that turned out to be a dance studio, complete with wooden floor, barre and large mirror.

Geoffrey handed him a dance belt and a pair of leggings. Both new, still in their wrapping.

“Show me.” He said again, leaning back against the wall, waiting.

After last night, Merab wasn't too shy as he changed. Geoffrey had seen it all anyway. He took his time, though, to stretch and warm up. Geoffrey didn't say anything, just watched him patiently.

When he felt ready, Merab grabbed his phone. “Music?” He gestured for something to hook it up to. Geoffrey pointed at a device in the corner, next to a state of the art stereo.

When Merab plugged his phone in, he saw that there was another notification for a text from Mo. But now wasn't the time for it.

He decided against something traditional and chose _'Honey'_ instead. It just seemed fitting.

_No, you're not gonna get what you need_   
_Baby, I have what you want_   
_Come get your honey_   
_I got your honey, baby_

The beats filled the room and Merab closed his eyes, let go. He hadn't prepared anything, he just danced on instinct, moving to the hypnotic rhythm. His muscles flexed and followed the music as his body twitched, gyrated, jumped and turned.

He was back in Tbilisi, dancing at an underground club with a boy he barely knew and who still felt like family... back in a moment when nothing had mattered and he'd felt free, weightless, at ease.

When the song ended, he was once again sweaty all over – but in a good way.

He dared to open his eyes, looking over at Geoffrey.

Who was frowning.

Merab didn't know what to do. Had he done something wrong? Had he screwed up? He didn't dare to allow himself to think he had blasted his only chance to get somewhere in this fucking country...

But then Geoffrey met his gaze. “Again, what is this nonsense?” He barked.

“Nonsense?” It felt like a punch to the gut. Merab knew he was a little out of shape but... nonsense? Had he been that bad?

“Yes, nonsense.” Geoffrey walked into the middle of the room, pointing a finger at Merab's chest. “Someone like you, working at a fast food chain. That's... I don't even have a word for it. You won't go back there.”

“I... won't?”

“No, because I'll hire you. Now, get your ass into the shower again, and then into my bed. But,” Geoffrey held up a hand, “only if you want to. I'm not... it's not a casting couch, I would hire you anyway.”

Merab just picked his phone up and nodded, relief flooding his body.

He just got hired for a professional dance company.

He had to tell his mum. And grandma. And his dad. Mary. This even justified a text to Irakli.

But he still couldn't text Mo.

Sitting in Geoffrey's huge bed, leaning back against the luxurious cushions and FaceTiming his mum and gran might not have been how Geoffrey had pictured the night – but that's what Merab was doing. His family had waited long enough for good news – now he had to tell them.

It was almost midnight when he finally hung up.

“You have a huge family.” Geoffrey smiled.

Merab just shrugged.

“Come here.” Geoffrey opened his arms. Merab crawled into his embrace. “Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to the rest of the company.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of Merab's head, and then they both fell asleep.

The next day was heaven. They got up early, showered together, and then Geoffrey made Merab breakfast. A healthy breakfast: bananas, musli, eggs. Accompanied by a protein shake.

At nine, they arrived at the company's studio in SoHo, Merab carrying a bag full of new dance clothes.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the other dancers arrived. They eyed Merab curiously, but no one spoke to him.

They did barre first, under the stern eyes of a Russian teacher (in her sixties, wiry thin, short grey hair). Merab was thankful for that, at least he could understand her commands.

During the following break, he overheard some conversations. Many dancers came from Eastern Europe: Latvia, Poland, Moldova, Ukraine, Russia. Everyone's English was broken.

“You think he will pick me?”

“My knees hurt.”

“Who's the new guy?”

Next came working on some choreography. Merab didn't understand everything, but it seemed that the company was rehearsing some big performance, and a lead dancer had just left.

Apparently, it was his place to fill the void.

He gave everything. Rehearsals went on way into the afternoon. Merab didn't care how much it hurt. His legs burned, his back ached – but that's what it meant to be a dancer.

His ankle throbbed and he decided to ignore it.

Afterwards, Geoffrey invited him over again...

He didn't want to sleep with him, apparently. Most of the time he demanded just oral sex. And there was kissing before and after, so Merab didn't feel too bad. Not like a kept boy. Not like he only got his role because he was good at sucking cook.

Mo stopped texting after four days.

It hurt, not to answer him back. But what was Merab to say? 'Found a ballet sugar daddy'...

A week later, Merab went over to the hostel to get his stuff and cancel his booking. That was when he found out that Mo had left the hostel as well...

Merab felt bad. For a few minutes at least. Because wasn't his life fucking exciting right now?

He didn't even know this guy that well. Maybe it was for the best he'd left...

To be honest, he did sleep with Geoffrey – sometimes. It wasn't bad. But this wasn't about sex, Merab told himself.

What really counted was the dancing.

And therefore, he was happy. He could train again, dance again. And not something traditional – but something modern. Something exciting. Something new.

And Geoffrey spoiled him, bought him clothes, even some jewelry. Merab didn't mind. But most important was the training. The rehearsals. He'd finally understood that they would perform at the Royal Albert Hall for some ballet festival.

His mum and dad had danced there, back when there still was a Soviet Union. His granny had danced there as well when Stalin still ruled their world.

And now he would dance there. Free.

He wanted to invite them all but knew it was impossible. Still...

At least he could invite Mo.

_'Long time no see'_ Mo texted back. Sounding rather short, dismissive.

_'Sorry. I had a lot to do. Please, come to my performance. Tickets will wait for you at the door.'_

_'I'll try.'_

That was it – and that was what Merab had to accept.

The week before the performance, the training became more and more demanding. Geoffrey started to stay during rehearsals and became increasingly nervous, upsetting the whole company with his requirements.

“That leg has to be higher. - Those feet need to be more precise. - Jump with more energy!”

“What does he want?” - “Why is he here?” The dancers were wondering.

Everyone started to doubt themselves. Most of all Merab. So he trained extra hard, stayed behind when everyone else had left...

Until his ankle started to hurt again.

A day before the premiere, he was truly in pain.

He was going through his adagio when suddenly his leg gave out. He crouched, holding his ankle, almost crying because of the pain...

“Merab, you okay?” Geoffrey sounded worried, but not kind.

Merab looked up at him, shaking his head. When he removed his hand from his ankle there was blood soaking his tights.

“You are injured! Why didn't you tell me?” Geoffrey just sounded angry. He gestured for Merab to go backstage. There, he expected some ice but Geoffrey just threw his clothes at him. Another young dancer was waiting in the wings, looking a little guilty but also quite eager.

“Geoffrey?” Merab hated how desperate he sounded.

“You should've told me. Get your things while I'm rehearsing. I want you gone tonight.” He gave Merab a stern look before turning away. “David, darling...”

Merab walked out of the theatre, feeling like shit. He actually wanted to walk right into the traffic – but then he hesitated. He still felt Geoffrey's key's in his pocket. But where should he go, now that his dance career had come to an abrupt end?

He scrolled through his phone. The first contact not connected to the dance company was Mo.

_'Hey, you still there? Sorry, change of plans.'_

A few seconds later a reply arrived: _'Are you okay, Merab?'_


	4. A New Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry, again, it's been ages. But here's a new chapter! Things are starting to look brighter...

Merab's leg hurt so much he had no choice but to flag down a cab to get him to Geoffrey's house. He resented the twenty pounds it cost him, aware that he would once again be left with almost nothing.

There would be no performance. He would have to tell his family back in Georgia. Later. But he had to tell Mo today because he'd promised him tickets.

So, from the backseat of the cab, he took heart and called Mo.

“Hey, I'm sorry for not calling. I had dance.” He stared out the window, watching London pass by while he waited for an answer.

“That's cool.” Mo sounded... not unfriendly, but somehow distant.

“You move from hostel.”

“Wow, you noticed.”

“I come back and you gone.”

“Well, didn't you leave also? Never texted back? Ghosted me?”

“I am sorry.” Merab closed his eyes.

“I thought we were friends. Or... shit, Merab, I was worried. And then I was hurt.”

“I... not good with explanation. On phone. But I make mistake. And now...” He only sighed. He lacked the English to fully explain his situation. He was desperate and needed a friend. And the only other person he knew in London was Mary. But he was too ashamed to talk to her about this mess. It was just too embarrassing.

“Hey, you sound off, man. Can I... do you need help?”

The taxi pulled up outside the house in Notting Hill. Merab gave the driver his last twenty pound note before getting out.

“I am just calling to tell you that there is no performance.” His voice was shaking, his hand too.

“Why? What happened?” Mo sounded truly worried by now.

Merab exhaled slowly. “When I text you address, can you come help move? Now?”

“Sure, it's my day off.”

Mo arrived an hour later. In the meantime, Merab had put ice and a bandage on his ankle. But he was still hobbling around.

He didn't have much stuff here. It were mostly clothes, dance gear. He didn't really need Mo to pack his stuff up. But it felt better to have someone with him. Especially should Geoffrey come home.

Mo whistled as he explored the house, Merab leading him to his room in the converted attic.

“Wow. This is much nicer than the hostel. So why are you moving out?”

Merab felt himself blush. “It didn't work.” He shrugged, busied himself emptying a drawer.

“And what is it with your leg? I thought you were dancing somewhere-?”

“Mo, fuck!” Merab threw a balled-up t-shirt onto the floor. “I had affair with man who owns this house and ballet company. But my...,” he gestured towards his injured foot, “I broke it back home. Now it hurt and I can't dance. So he threw me out from house and company.” He felt tears burn in his eyes.

“Hey, shit, sorry.” Mo was behind him, pulling him into a hug.

“I know only you here when not dancing.” Merab mumbled against Mo's shoulder. He smelled nice, sharp and sweet at the same time. “And no money.”

Mo held him for a long time until his sobs had finally subsided.

“Lets sit down.” Mo lowered them both onto the small bed. “So, this man had you living here and you danced for him at his dance company?”

Merab nodded.

“But he didn't give you any contract, a document, he didn't pay you a salary?”

Now Merab shook his head.

“And as you injured yourself he threw you out and replaced you, just like that?” Mo flicked his fingers.

“Yes.” Merab wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Mo looked at him a long time, then looked around.

“I'm pretty sure we'll find enough stuff here to get you through the next few months.”

When it dawned on Merab what Mo meant, he paled and shook his head. “No. I'm not stealing. I don't want anything from him. I want just go away.” He was neither a whore nor a thieve.

“But where will you go? You said you have no money. And he seems loaded-”

“I said no! I sleep in park or under bridge.”

Mo sighed. “Nonsense. If you really don't want to take what's due to you you can always crash at my place. It's in Brixton. Small, but it's just me, not a room full of stinking, farting, masturbating guys.” He grinned.

Merab felt a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders. “You sure?”

“Yeah, of course. That'll be fun. Come on, lets get your stuff and then we're outta here.”

Merab left the silver chain and bracelet Geoffrey had bought him behind. It felt wrong to take it, like accepting a bribe. They did take one of Geoffrey's expensive suitcases, though. Merab was sure that the letters printed all over it showed it was the real thing, not one of the cheap copies sold in Tbilisi at the train station. He threw in his clothes and then Mo carried it downstairs.

There, Merab dropped his keys on the small table in the hall before they pulled the door shut behind them.

Merab took a deep breath. So that part if his life was over.

“Tube station's just round the corner.” Mo gestured. They walked slowly to go easy on Merab's ankle, Mo putting one arm around his shoulder, pulling the suitcase with the other.

It felt nice.

Merab liked Brixton. It reminded him a bit of the block of flats he grew up in. It was loud, colorful and a bit untidy, but he felt a strong sense on community.

Mo lived on the first floor of a small brick terraced house. The flat was basically one big, bright room, with a small kitchen and bathroom at the back. There were very few pieces of furniture – a futon bed, a table, a few chairs, some shelves – but it was all meticulously clean.

“Sit down, I make us coffee.”

A few minutes later Merab had a cup of real strong coffee in front of him – not the horrendous instant stuff most British people drank. He took a huge sip, burning his tongue, but it didn't matter.

“Now show me your ankle.” Mo patted his thigh to indicate for Merab to place his foot there.

When Mo took of the sneaker and pulled down the sock and bandage, he winced. “Ouch. That looks bad.”

“It happened back home. I was... stupid, didn't take care.” Merab raised his hands. “Now dance is over.”

“Have you ever been to a doctor with this?” Mo asked, massaging Merab's calf. That felt very nice, too.

“No. I hope it get better just like that... and I don't have... I don't know the word, but I can't pay a doctor.”

“You don't pay a doctor here. We have the NHS. It's free.”

“Free?” Merab shook his head. There was a glimmer of hope. Maybe a proper doctor could help him... but then he remembered. “But I am not... legal. I am not from EU.”

“I have a friend. She's a nurse. We'll talk to her, find out what we can do, okay?”

Maybe it was just the coffee but Merab already felt better.

Later, Mo cooked something that smelled spicy and like coconuts while Merab rested on the futon. They watched a movie while they ate and then it was time for bed – as Mo had to get up at five in the morning.

Merab stared at the futon, blinked. “Do you have... like you use for camping...?”

“What? A sleeping mat? Why?”

“Because you only have one bed.” Merab didn't dare to look at Mo.

“Don't be silly. Just hop in.” Mo flopped down, just in a t-shirt and his boxers, pulling back the sheet as he wiggled on the futon.

Merab laughed softly and went to brush his teeth.

It was a bit awkward at first, sharing the bed. Mo was rather broad and the futon... well, not. And Merab's ankle still made moving difficult and painful, so he couldn't move out of the way when Mo rolled over during the night, throwing his arm over Merab's waist.

Or maybe he didn't want to move away?

He stirred when Mo got up, cursing silently as he swiped his phone to silence.

“Go back to sleep.” A brush of lips against his cheek, a hint of stubble.

When Merab opened his eyes again, the room was awash with sunlight and his own phone told him that it was a little past nine.

His foot felt better, he could almost walk normally if he was careful and didn't put too much weight on it. As he made his way over into the small kitchen, there was a piece of paper on the table – and a set of keys.

'Good morning, have some breakfast and a lovely day! See you tonight! Mo XXX'

Merab smiled as he brewed himself some coffee with Mo's Turkish coffee pot, ate a slice of dry toast. He didn't want to exploit Mo's hospitality, at least not when he couldn't contribute himself to pay for food.

He showered quickly, dressed – and then sat at the table, wondering what he should do. For the first time since he arrived in London, he didn't have work.

Maybe he should go back to the McDonald's he used to work at, ask if his job was still available...

But, god, just the thought made him sick. He thought he could still smell the grease, the onions...

So, what then?

He couldn't go back to cleaning the ballet studio either, as its owner was friends with Geoffrey... Just remembering that man's name made Merab shake with anger. The way he had treated him... like a slut, a thing rather than a human being, replacing him the moment he showed some weakness.

Merab knew that Dance was a serious business, the competition merciless... and still, what had happened to him felt cruel.

He started to look online for jobs to distract himself from these gloomy thoughts. But everyone demanded references, documents, letters of recommendation... it was useless, hopeless.

He should just book a flight back home.

He swallowed. He didn't even have enough money for that. But maybe David could help him? But then their mum and grandma would be short of money.

He was young and healthy – well, almost – he should be able to find a job, make some money. Maybe Mo could help him, maybe they needed someone like him at a building site? He used to help his dad fix things...

The day dragged on. Merab watched some television, to improve his English. Did the dishes. Waited.

He knew back home they would wait for him to call, to tell them about the premiere. He couldn't bring himself to lie to them, to brag about how great it had been. But he wasn't ready to tell them the truth either. Not before he could soften it with the good news that he at least had found a job.

His thoughts were starting to go in circles.

He had no idea when Mo would come home.

At around six, he started to prepare some dinner. He found eggs, a tin of tuna, canned tomatoes and made an omelet.

But it was almost ten when he finally heard someone at the door.

Merab had been too proud to phone Mo. He didn't want to come over clingy.

“Oh, wow, cool, you cooked.” Mo smiled as he sat at the table.

“It is cold now.”

“Never mind.” Mo dug in like a starving man while Merab pushed a piece of egg around on his plate.

“You work this late?” He asked. It was getting dark outside. Sure that would be too dangerous on a building site. Did Mo avoid coming home not to meet him? Was he already regretting inviting him?

“Shit, you had already gone back to sleep then? Sorry. I told you this morning. I had class. I have most evenings, from five to nine.”

Merab didn't get it. “Class? You go to school?”

“Evening classes. I don't want to be a bricklayer forever. So I'm learning accountancy, project management, stuff like that. You could do that as well.”

“I need a job.” Merab rested his chin in his palm.

“Oh, about that. One of the guys in my class, he's from Georgia, too. Came here years ago. We got talking as I mentioned you. He was asking about you. Anyway, he does this course because he owns a bar here and finally wants to understand how to properly manage it. He said should you need help you could go see him.”

Merab closed his eyes. He'd avoided the Georgian community here in London because didn't he leave his country to escape the ever-present discrimination, the judgment? But how could he explain that to Mo?

“I'm not sure I will like his bar. And he might not like me.”

“Oh, I'm actually sure you'll love it there. Tomorrow is Saturday. Lets go there and meet him. Lets go out.” Mo grinned and Merab simply couldn't say no to his host – could he?

The next afternoon, they went to the Cafe Suliko in Soho.

“What does it mean?” Mo asked and Merab tried to explain that the usual translation would be 'soul', but that it was also a name, both male and female. And everyone in Georgia knew, of course, the famous song...

When they walked through the door and into a cozy, paneled cafe – the benches covered with brightly embroidered cushions, the walls decorated with photographs showing the snowy Caucasus mountains – Merab recognized a rainbow sticker next to the sign for the opening hours...

The owner, Levan, was waiting for them. He hugged Mo and shook Merab's hand, smiling.

“Nice to meet you. Mo told me a lot about you. But I think it would be polite to speak English, okay?” He was a small man, about fifty, with a huge belly and jet-black curls hanging down onto his shoulders.

“Yes, sure.” Merab felt himself relax a little. The place smelled of Tschai, sharp Adschika and Tkemali. It smelled a little like home.

Levan served them Georgian wine – much lighter than the usual European wine – and Chatschapuri. Merab explained to Mo that this was some kind of baked cheese toast and that made him look a bit less skeptical at his food.

“So, Mo here tells me that you need a job. Have you ever worked in a cafe?”

“No.” Merab shook his head and felt his spirits sink.

“Ah, never mind. Its easy. You won't be cooking, that's Mirko's job. You just write down the orders and serve the customers. They're a friendly bunch.”

Merab looked around. They were sitting at a small table at the back near the door to the kitchen. The place was fairly busy. Most tables were occupied by men, some, but not all, speaking an Eastern European language – Merab thought he heard Russian, Polish, Ukrainian, even Armenian...

Mo had started to grin. Slowly, understanding dawned on Merab.

“Though sometimes, there's some fuss.” Levan spoke very good English, almost without an accent. He must have been living in England for quite some time. “But for that, we have Vitali.” He pointed to a large bald man wearing a leather vest, leaning next to the door, his neck decorated with a spider web tattoo. “I know, he looks like a barbarian, but he's soft as a lamb. As long as you don't get funny with him. Sometimes, we have folks here who want to pick a fight.”

“So, this is a gay cafe?” Merab asked slowly.

Levan spread his arms wide. “You know, I left Georgia in 1990, as soon as I could get out. I'm sure you understand why. And now, I dream of it almost every night. Well, at least a few times a month. But when I go back there, it only takes me a few days to remember why I left. Not much has changed there, I'm afraid.” He took a sip of wine. “Mo told me you're a dancer. Traditional dance?”

Merab nodded. Levan pursed his lips. “I remember some of those dancers. Great bodies. But always living in fear of getting caught. I think even in the eighties they were still sent into some Gulag, for re-education.” He shuddered, making air quotes with his thick fingers. “Is that still a thing?”

“Now it's the monks and monasteries.” Merab remembered the stories he'd heard. The distress must have shown on his face because Mo squeezed his shoulder. Levan refilled their glasses, then raised his.

“So, what do you say, Merab? Can you imagine to sign on with Cafe Suliko?”

Merab smiled back. “Absolute.”

They all clinked glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Suliko is a famous traditional Georgian song and here is a video of it: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPjf8E6tk78
> 
> I know nothing about Georgian cooking so please forgive any mistakes.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I promise to finish this story!


	5. Chapter 5

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Well, English Christmas, not Orthodox Christmas. But Café Suliko nonetheless put up tinsel and mistletoe.

“Tonight will be busy.” Levan was telling Merab as he started his shift. Apparently, it was the annual Christmas party. The last Saturday evening before the Holy Night Levan traditionally hosted a colourful feast at the Café.

The bar was already packed with men from Eastern Europe, some couples, some on the prowl. The tables had been moved to the side to build a makeshift buffet laden with all kinds of English and Georgian dishes. Mince pies sat next to Satzivi. Wine, beer and Chacha were already flowing.

A few hours later, Merab felt sweaty all over. Yes, he was still working, but he was also dancing, chatting and flirting. Several men had hit on him and with one he’d snogged a little in the corridor leading to the toilets.

No harm done, it was all just fun.

Until the door opened and Mo arrived, unwinding the longest rainbow scarf from around his neck Merab had ever seen.

They’d been living together for some time now, but more like flatmates than anything else. True, some evenings they made out on the couch, and some nights they shared the futon, but nothing major had happened yet.

Major as in having sex. Kissing, yes… but nothing more.

Merab had the feeling they both felt reluctant and maybe even afraid to go further. He surely did. After Irakli and the shit show with Geoffrey Merab simply didn’t trust men. 

It was unfair as he sensed that Mo was different, that he gave him time and space… but Merab just couldn’t let himself go. Or fall.

He feared that once they’d done the deed Mo would kick him out. Or that he wouldn’t take what was between them seriously.

There was no base for these assumptions, Mo only ever acted sensible and courteous. Merab even had his own room in the flat they’d shared for some weeks – he chipped in on the rent – though it was only a spacious closet with a window. He still wondered how Londoners could describe these shoeboxes as apartments.

He was proud to be able to support himself with a decent job. Even his ankle had gotten better, thanks to seeing Mo’s friend, the physiotherapist. And Levan knew a lot of people and had introduced him to the founder of an Eastern European experimental dance company. He’ll audition there first thing in the New Year.

Overall, things looked rather bright.

Which had helped him deal with news from home.

Irakli had sent him a picture of his child just this morning.

It had reminded Merab of all he’d lost and what he’d never have.

The second message had been more personal. Irakli missed him. Would Merab come back to Tbilisi for Christmas in January? Could they see each other? He could manage to come down from Batumi for a few days as his wife would stay with her family.

It had all sounded so sordid. Merab had deleted the messages without answering, then regretted it.

He thought he was over Irakli by now. But were you ever over your first love?

But those thoughts were wiped from his mind when Mo hugged him.

“Hey!” He smiled.

“Hey, how’re you holding up?”

“Fine.”

Mo was looking around, taking it all in. “I see.”

“Get some food. Get some drink. I have to work.”

“Sure.” But Mo held him a moment longer, then pressed a kiss to his lips. Nothing too intimate, more like a smacker, but still. In front of everyone.

Merab felt himself blush and hurried away, back behind the bar.

But he kept watching Mo, who quickly struck up a conversation with a couple Merab thought was originally from Hungary.

The Café was crammed by now, the music – an eclectic mix of Russian pop, Klezmer punk and Eastern European folk songs – almost too loud to talk. Orders were placed mostly by sign language. Merab was quite busy the next half hour and got rather nervous when he realized that Mo had escaped his field of vision.

But then someone was throwing their arms around his neck and it took him a moment to realize that this wasn’t Mo but Mary.

“Hey, you made it!” Merab kissed her on both cheeks.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss this party for anything in the world. So, where is he?” Mary was bouncing on her toes, her cheeks red from the rather mild London winter weather.

“The last time I saw him he was over there.” Merab pointed over her left shoulder.

“When was that?”

“Some time ago, I don’t know if you noticed but it’s rather busy tonight.”

She punched his bicep. “You’re so very funny, darling.” Mary grinned nonetheless. “Let’s see if we can find him.” She took Merab’s hand and pulled him through the crowd, despite his protests. Heads turned as they passed and Mary yelled apologies.

Eventually, Merab saw Mo standing in a corner, his head bend low to a blond guy with spiky hair and a nose piercing.

Merab froze inside for a second. “Maybe we should leave him-“

But Mary had already walked up to Mo and was touching his shoulder. He turned towards her, smiling.

“Yes?”

“Hello, I’m Mary. How do you do?” Mary was extending her right hand, quite formally, her accent heavy. Merab couldn’t help but grin fondly.

“Hello, Mary. I’m Mo. How d’you do?”

“I am friends with Merab. From Tbilisi.” With that, she was pulling and pushing Merab forward until he came to stand quite close to Mo. Spiky Hair was looking from one to the other, and – after Mary made a somewhat universal nod with her head – silently took his leave.

Mary was looking around while Mo and Merab were looking at each other.

“I have heard there is this English custom that you have to kiss under mistletoe at Christmas.” Mary said, grabbing both their arms to drag them over in the middle of the room where said plant was dangling from a beam.

Merab had the feeling all eyes were on them.

“Now, kiss!” Mary demanded.

Merab giggled and wanted to turn away to tell her to fuck off but then Mo took his face decidedly within both hands and pressed his lips to Merab’s.

At first, he didn’t really know what to do. But then, when Mo insisted, he opened his mouth and let him in, vaguely aware that Mary was clapping her hands and ordering a round of Vodka.

The rest of the evening was some kind of blur. They danced. They drank. They kissed some more. Mary made out with Spiky Hair. 

Around eleven, Mo bundled Merab into a Uber. Merab might have been singing an old Georgian folk song, but he hoped not.

At their flat, Merab excused himself, locked the bathroom door and held his head under the tap until the cold water had him somewhat sobered up.

But when he walked back into the kitchen, Mo had actually opened the bottle of red wine he’d gotten from his boss for Christmas.

“I thought we should celebrate.” He said, passing a glass to Merab.

“Celebrate what? Christmas is only in a few days.”

“Us, you prick.” Mo threw his phone on the table and a slow jazzy song started to play. “Dance with me.”

Merab willingly slid into Mo’s arms and let him lead.

The wine was cheap and too sweet but neither of them minded as they licked it from each other’s lips.

When they fell onto Mo’s futon it seemed just the natural thing to do.

“Sooo…”, Mo kissed Merad softly, “you think you’re ready for the next stage in our relationship?”

Merab grinned and shrugged. He felt warm from wine and kissing but still somewhat nervous and reluctant.

“I mean, we’ve been living together for a little bit. Got to know each other. I know how you take your coffee by now. And that for whatever reason you love Great British Bake-Off-“

“I learned a lot of English from that show while you were at your evening classes.”

“And you learned how to make crumble.” Mo smiled.

“You said you love my crumble?” Merab wasn’t sure if he should feel hurt by Mo’s mockery.

“I do.” Mo quickly flipped them over so he was on top of Merab. “And that’s not the only thing I love about you.”

Merab couldn’t do anything else than smile stupidly up at Mo.

“Your hair. Your freckles. Your funny little nose. Your mouth.”

And they kiss.

Then suddenly Mo pushes his hands underneath Merab’s t-shirt.

“Okay?”

Merab nods, not sure if his voice would obey him.

Then his t-shirt is off. And Mo’s as well.

There’s so much skin. Warm, soft skin over hard muscles. The smell of their mixed sweat fills the room.

They kiss, and it turns into soft bites. To the neck, the shoulders. Their hands are all over each other, their backs, their ribs, their stomachs.

Mo sucks on Merab’s nipples and he arches off the mattress, moaning.

When he thinks his head might explode, Mo moves even lower.

It’s too much.

Merab yells when Mo’s tongue dips into his bellybutton.

“You okay?” Mo asks.

Merab nods while his mouth says “No”.

Mo huffs a laugh and leans up on his elbows.

“Shall I stop?”

Merab shakes his head.

When Mo unbuttons his jeans his whole body trembles. Hot breath hits him between his legs, dampening the cotton still covering his hard cock.

The head peaks out from the elastic and Mo licks it once. Merab shouts, shivers, grabs the back of Mo’s head and pulls him back down.

It’s frantic, not graceful, primal.

Mo sucks him into his mouth and Merab’s hips buck up.

He thinks of a summer night in Georgia, up in the mountains, in the woods.

He thinks of Irakli, the smell of pine needles.

And then he doesn’t as he spills into Mo’s mouth, who sucks him dry and then kisses him again while Merab reaches between his legs to grab his hot hard erection.

Merab allows himself to watch Mo like he never watched Irakli. He wouldn’t have allowed it. They never took their time, just quickly satisfied their needs. There was no love and tenderness, just want and horniness. There was never any time nor space for them and feelings.

Afterwards, Mo hugs him, kisses him, gets up and gets more wine. When the bottle is empty, they shower together (not an easy task in their small tub).

They share a cigarette, and Merab watches the smoke curl while Mo holds him, bites his shoulder, ruffles his hair.

There’s no shame here, they don’t hide their feelings or pretend it’s just something casual that happened.

When Merab’s phone pings he leans over and unlocks it.

David has sent a picture of his kid baking cookies.

Merab smiles.

“What?” Mo asks.

Merab shows him. “That’s my brother’s eldest.” He says proudly.

“Will I ever meet him?” Mo asks, sounding somewhat serious.

“I hope so. David was always my saviour. You’d like him. He works in construction, too.”

“I want to meet all your family.” Mo says, cuddling close.

Merab thinks of his dad working in a junk yard called a market, his gran and mum trapped in a flat too big for them now, David and his Armenian wife and kid, all the other relatives, neighbours, acquaintances… and grins. What would they make of his… boyfriend.

“That would be very interesting.” He says, and then he snaps a pic of him and Mo cuddled together in bed to send back to his brother. 

He captures it “Happy Christmas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and a better 2021 to you all!


End file.
